Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham

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Mrs. Black had a cottage about half a mile along the road, and shecombined the office of postmistress with that of universal provider. Sallycame out of the hut, turning down her sleeves.

"Shall I come with you, Sally?" asked Philip.

"Don't you trouble. I'm not afraid to go alone."

"I didn't think you were; but it's getting near my bedtime, and I was justthinking I'd like to stretch my legs."

Sally did not answer, and they set out together. The road was white andsilent. There was not a sound in the summer night. They did not speakmuch.

"It's quite hot even now, isn't it?" said Philip.

"I think it's wonderful for the time of year."

But their silence did not seem awkward. They found it was pleasant to walkside by side and felt no need of words. Suddenly at a stile in thehedgerow they heard a low murmur of voices, and in the darkness they sawthe outline of two people. They were sitting very close to one another anddid not move as Philip and Sally passed.

"I wonder who that was," said Sally.

"They looked happy enough, didn't they?"

"I expect they took us for lovers too."

They saw the light of the cottage in front of them, and in a minute wentinto the little shop. The glare dazzled them for a moment.

"You are late," said Mrs. Black. "I was just going to shut up." She lookedat the clock. "Getting on for nine."

Sally asked for her half pound of tea (Mrs. Athelny could never bringherself to buy more than half a pound at a time), and they set off up theroad again. Now and then some beast of the night made a short, sharpsound, but it seemed only to make the silence more marked.

"I believe if you stood still you could hear the sea," said Sally.

They strained their ears, and their fancy presented them with a faintsound of little waves lapping up against the shingle. When they passed thestile again the lovers were still there, but now they were not speaking;they were in one another's arms, and the man's lips were pressed againstthe girl's.

"They seem busy," said Sally.

They turned a corner, and a breath of warm wind beat for a moment againsttheir faces. The earth gave forth its freshness. There was somethingstrange in the tremulous night, and something, you knew not what, seemedto be waiting; the silence was on a sudden pregnant with meaning. Philiphad a queer feeling in his heart, it seemed very full, it seemed to melt(the hackneyed phrases expressed precisely the curious sensation), he felthappy and anxious and expectant. To his memory came back those lines inwhich Jessica and Lorenzo murmur melodious words to one another, cappingeach other's utterance; but passion shines bright and clear through theconceits that amuse them. He did not know what there was in the air thatmade his senses so strangely alert; it seemed to him that he was pure soulto enjoy the scents and the sounds and the savours of the earth. He hadnever felt such an exquisite capacity for beauty. He was afraid that Sallyby speaking would break the spell, but she said never a word, and hewanted to hear the sound of her voice. Its low richness was the voice ofthe country night itself.

They arrived at the field through which she had to walk to get back to thehuts. Philip went in to hold the gate open for her.

"Well, here I think I'll say good-night."

"Thank you for coming all that way with me."

She gave him her hand, and as he took it, he said:

"If you were very nice you'd kiss me good-night like the rest of thefamily."

"I don't mind," she said.

Philip had spoken in jest. He merely wanted to kiss her, because he washappy and he liked her and the night was so lovely.

"Good-night then," he said, with a little laugh, drawing her towards him.

She gave him her lips; they were warm and full and soft; he lingered alittle, they were like a flower; then, he knew not how, without meaningit, he flung his arms round her. She yielded quite silently. Her body wasfirm and strong. He felt her heart beat against his. Then he lost hishead. His senses overwhelmed him like a flood of rushing waters. He drewher into the darker shadow of the hedge.

CXX

Philip slept like a log and awoke with a start to find Harold tickling hisface with a feather. There was a shout of delight when he opened his eyes.He was drunken with sleep.

Then he remembered what had happened. His heart sank, and, half out of bedalready, he stopped; he did not know how he was going to face her; he wasoverwhelmed with a sudden rush of self-reproach, and bitterly, bitterly,he regretted what he had done. What would she say to him that morning? Hedreaded meeting her, and he asked himself how he could have been such afool. But the children gave him no time; Edward took his bathing-drawersand his towel, Athelstan tore the bed-clothes away; and in three minutesthey all clattered down into the road. Sally gave him a smile. It was assweet and innocent as it had ever been.

"You do take a time to dress yourself," she said. "I thought you was nevercoming."

There was not a particle of difference in her manner. He had expected somechange, subtle or abrupt; he fancied that there would be shame in the wayshe treated him, or anger, or perhaps some increase of familiarity; butthere was nothing. She was exactly the same as before. They walked towardsthe sea all together, talking and laughing; and Sally was quiet, but shewas always that, reserved, but he had never seen her otherwise, andgentle. She neither sought conversation with him nor avoided it. Philipwas astounded. He had expected the incident of the night before to havecaused some revolution in her, but it was just as though nothing hadhappened; it might have been a dream; and as he walked along, a littlegirl holding on to one hand and a little boy to the other, while hechatted as unconcernedly as he could, he sought for an explanation. Hewondered whether Sally meant the affair to be forgotten. Perhaps hersenses had run away with her just as his had, and, treating what hadoccurred as an accident due to unusual circumstances, it might be that shehad decided to put the matter out of her mind. It was ascribing to her apower of thought and a mature wisdom which fitted neither with her age norwith her character. But he realised that he knew nothing of her. There hadbeen in her always something enigmatic.

They played leap-frog in the water, and the bathe was as uproarious as onthe previous day. Sally mothered them all, keeping a watchful eye on them,and calling to them when they went out too far. She swam staidly backwardsand forwards while the others got up to their larks, and now and thenturned on her back to float. Presently she went out and began dryingherself; she called to the others more or less peremptorily, and at lastonly Philip was left in the water. He took the opportunity to have a goodhard swim. He was more used to the cold water this second morning, and herevelled in its salt freshness; it rejoiced him to use his limbs freely,and he covered the water with long, firm strokes. But Sally, with a towelround her, went down to the water's edge.

"You're to come out this minute, Philip," she called, as though he were asmall boy under her charge.

And when, smiling with amusement at her authoritative way, he came towardsher, she upbraided him.

"It is naughty of you to stay in so long. Your lips are quite blue, andjust look at your teeth, they're chattering."

"All right. I'll come out."

She had never talked to him in that manner before. It was as though whathad happened gave her a sort of right over him, and she looked upon him asa child to be cared for. In a few minutes they were dressed, and theystarted to walk back. Sally noticed his hands.

"Just look, they're quite blue."

"Oh, that's all right. It's only the circulation. I shall get the bloodback in a minute."

"Give them to me."

She took his hands in hers and rubbed them, first one and then the other,till the colour returned. Philip, touched and puzzled, watched her. Hecould not say anything to her on account of the children, and he did notmeet her eyes; but he was sure they did not avoid his purposely, it justhappened that they did not meet. And during the day there was nothing inher behaviour to suggest a consciousness in her that anything had passedbetween them. Perhaps she was a little more talkative than usual. Whenthey were all sitting again in the hop-field she told her mother hownaughty Philip had been in not coming out of the water till he was bluewith cold. It was incredible, and yet it seemed that the only effect ofthe incident of the night before was to arouse in her a feeling ofprotection towards him: she had the same instinctive desire to mother himas she had with regard to her brothers and sisters.

It was not till the evening that he found himself alone with her. She wascooking the supper, and Philip was sitting on the grass by the side of thefire. Mrs. Athelny had gone down to the village to do some shopping, andthe children were scattered in various pursuits of their own. Philiphesitated to speak. He was very nervous. Sally attended to her businesswith serene competence and she accepted placidly the silence which to himwas so embarrassing. He did not know how to begin. Sally seldom spokeunless she was spoken to or had something particular to say. At last hecould not bear it any longer.

"You're not angry with me, Sally?" he blurted out suddenly.

She raised her eyes quietly and looked at him without emotion.

"Me? No. Why should I be?"

He was taken aback and did not reply. She took the lid off the pot,stirred the contents, and put it on again. A savoury smell spread over theair. She looked at him once more, with a quiet smile which barelyseparated her lips; it was more a smile of the eyes.

"I always liked you," she said.

His heart gave a great thump against his ribs, and he felt the bloodrushing to his cheeks. He forced a faint laugh.

"I didn't know that."

"That's because you're a silly."

"I don't know why you liked me."

"I don't either." She put a little more wood on the fire. "I knew I likedyou that day you came when you'd been sleeping out and hadn't had anythingto eat, d'you remember? And me and mother, we got Thorpy's bed ready foryou."

He flushed again, for he did not know that she was aware of that incident.He remembered it himself with horror and shame.

"That's why I wouldn't have anything to do with the others. You rememberthat young fellow mother wanted me to have? I let him come to tea becausehe bothered so, but I knew I'd say no."

Philip was so surprised that he found nothing to say. There was a queerfeeling in his heart; he did not know what it was, unless it washappiness. Sally stirred the pot once more.

"I wish those children would make haste and come. I don't know wherethey've got to. Supper's ready now."

"Shall I go and see if I can find them?" said Philip.

It was a relief to talk about practical things.

"Well, it wouldn't be a bad idea, I must say.... There's mother coming."

Then, as he got up, she looked at him without embarrassment.

"Shall I come for a walk with you tonight when I've put the children tobed?"

"Yes."

"Well, you wait for me down by the stile, and I'll come when I'm ready."

He waited under the stars, sitting on the stile, and the hedges with theirripening blackberries were high on each side of him. From the earth roserich scents of the night, and the air was soft and still. His heart wasbeating madly. He could not understand anything of what happened to him.He associated passion with cries and tears and vehemence, and there wasnothing of this in Sally; but he did not know what else but passion couldhave caused her to give herself. But passion for him? He would not havebeen surprised if she had fallen to her cousin, Peter Gann, tall, spare,and straight, with his sunburned face and long, easy stride. Philipwondered what she saw in him. He did not know if she loved him as hereckoned love. And yet? He was convinced of her purity. He had a vagueinkling that many things had combined, things that she felt though wasunconscious of, the intoxication of the air and the hops and the night,the healthy instincts of the natural woman, a tenderness that overflowed,and an affection that had in it something maternal and something sisterly;and she gave all she had to give because her heart was full of charity.

He heard a step on the road, and a figure came out of the darkness.

"Sally," he murmured.

She stopped and came to the stile, and with her came sweet, clean odoursof the country-side. She seemed to carry with her scents of the new-mownhay, and the savour of ripe hops, and the freshness of young grass. Herlips were soft and full against his, and her lovely, strong body was firmwithin his arms.

"Milk and honey," he said. "You're like milk and honey."

He made her close her eyes and kissed her eyelids, first one and then theother. Her arm, strong and muscular, was bare to the elbow; he passed hishand over it and wondered at its beauty; it gleamed in the darkness; shehad the skin that Rubens painted, astonishingly fair and transparent, andon one side were little golden hairs. It was the arm of a Saxon goddess;but no immortal had that exquisite, homely naturalness; and Philip thoughtof a cottage garden with the dear flowers which bloom in all men's hearts,of the hollyhock and the red and white rose which is called York andLancaster, and of love--in-a-mist and Sweet William, and honeysuckle,larkspur, and London Pride.

"How can you care for me?" he said. "I'm insignificant and crippled andordinary and ugly."

She took his face in both her hands and kissed his lips.

"You're an old silly, that's what you are," she said.

CXXI

When the hops were picked, Philip with the news in his pocket that he hadgot the appointment as assistant house-physician at St. Luke's,accompanied the Athelnys back to London. He took modest rooms inWestminster and at the beginning of October entered upon his duties. Thework was interesting and varied; every day he learned something new; hefelt himself of some consequence; and he saw a good deal of Sally. Hefound life uncommonly pleasant. He was free about six, except on the dayson which he had out-patients, and then he went to the shop at which Sallyworked to meet her when she came out. There were several young men, whohung about opposite the `trade entrance' or a little further along, at thefirst corner; and the girls, coming out two and two or in little groups,nudged one another and giggled as they recognised them. Sally in her plainblack dress looked very different from the country lass who had pickedhops side by side with him. She walked away from the shop quickly, but sheslackened her pace when they met, and greeted him with her quiet smile.They walked together through the busy street. He talked to her of his workat the hospital, and she told him what she had been doing in the shop thatday. He came to know the names of the girls she worked with. He found thatSally had a restrained, but keen, sense of the ridiculous, and she maderemarks about the girls or the men who were set over them which amused himby their unexpected drollery. She had a way of saying a thing which wasvery characteristic, quite gravely, as though there were nothing funny init at all, and yet it was so sharp-sighted that Philip broke intodelighted laughter. Then she would give him a little glance in which thesmiling eyes showed she was not unaware of her own humour. They met witha handshake and parted as formally. Once Philip asked her to come and havetea with him in his rooms, but she refused.

"No, I won't do that. It would look funny."

Never a word of love passed between them. She seemed not to desireanything more than the companionship of those walks. Yet Philip waspositive that she was glad to be with him. She puzzled him as much as shehad done at the beginning. He did not begin to understand her conduct; butthe more he knew her the fonder he grew of her; she was competent and selfcontrolled, and there was a charming honesty in her: you felt that youcould rely upon her in every circumstance.

"You are an awfully good sort," he said to her once a propos of nothingat all.

"I expect I'm just the same as everyone else," she answered.

He knew that he did not love her. It was a great affection that he feltfor her, and he liked her company; it was curiously soothing; and he hada feeling for her which seemed to him ridiculous to entertain towards ashop-girl of nineteen: he respected her. And he admired her magnificenthealthiness. She was a splendid animal, without defect; and physicalperfection filled him always with admiring awe. She made him feelunworthy.

Then, one day, about three weeks after they had come back to London asthey walked together, he noticed that she was unusually silent. Theserenity of her expression was altered by a slight line between theeyebrows: it was the beginning of a frown.

"What's the matter, Sally?" he asked.

She did not look at him, but straight in front of her, and her colourdarkened.

"I don't know."

He understood at once what she meant. His heart gave a sudden, quick beat,and he felt the colour leave his cheeks.

"What d'you mean? Are you afraid that... ?"

He stopped. He could not go on. The possibility that anything of the sortcould happen had never crossed his mind. Then he saw that her lips weretrembling, and she was trying not to cry.

"I'm not certain yet. Perhaps it'll be all right."

They walked on in silence till they came to the corner of Chancery Lane,where he always left her. She held out her hand and smiled.

"Don't worry about it yet. Let's hope for the best."

He walked away with a tumult of thoughts in his head. What a fool he hadbeen! That was the first thing that struck him, an abject, miserable fool,and he repeated it to himself a dozen times in a rush of angry feeling. Hedespised himself. How could he have got into such a mess? But at the sametime, for his thoughts chased one another through his brain and yet seemedto stand together, in a hopeless confusion, like the pieces of a jig-sawpuzzle seen in a nightmare, he asked himself what he was going to do.Everything was so clear before him, all he had aimed at so long withinreach at last, and now his inconceivable stupidity had erected this newobstacle. Philip had never been able to surmount what he acknowledged wasa defect in his resolute desire for a well ordered life, and that was hispassion for living in the future; and no sooner was he settled in his workat the hospital than he had busied himself with arrangements for histravels. In the past he had often tried not to think too circumstantiallyof his plans for the future, it was only discouraging; but now that hisgoal was so near he saw no harm in giving away to a longing that was sodifficult to resist. First of all he meant to go to Spain. That was theland of his heart; and by now he was imbued with its spirit, its romanceand colour and history and grandeur; he felt that it had a message for himin particular which no other country could give. He knew the fine oldcities already as though he had trodden their tortuous streets fromchildhood. Cordova, Seville, Toledo, Leon, Tarragona, Burgos. The greatpainters of Spain were the painters of his soul, and his pulse beatquickly as he pictured his ecstasy on standing face to face with thoseworks which were more significant than any others to his own tortured,restless heart. He had read the great poets, more characteristic of theirrace than the poets of other lands; for they seemed to have drawn theirinspiration not at all from the general currents of the world's literaturebut directly from the torrid, scented plains and the bleak mountains oftheir country. A few short months now, and he would hear with his own earsall around him the language which seemed most apt for grandeur of soul andpassion. His fine taste had given him an inkling that Andalusia was toosoft and sensuous, a little vulgar even, to satisfy his ardour; and hisimagination dwelt more willingly among the wind-swept distances of Castileand the rugged magnificence of Aragon and Leon. He did not know quite whatthose unknown contacts would give him, but he felt that he would gatherfrom them a strength and a purpose which would make him more capable ofaffronting and comprehending the manifold wonders of places more distantand more strange.

For this was only a beginning. He had got into communication with thevarious companies which took surgeons out on their ships, and knew exactlywhat were their routes, and from men who had been on them what were theadvantages and disadvantages of each line. He put aside the Orient and theP. & O. It was difficult to get a berth with them; and besides theirpassenger traffic allowed the medical officer little freedom; but therewere other services which sent large tramps on leisurely expeditions tothe East, stopping at all sorts of ports for various periods, from a dayor two to a fortnight, so that you had plenty of time, and it was oftenpossible to make a trip inland. The pay was poor and the food no more thanadequate, so that there was not much demand for the posts, and a man witha London degree was pretty sure to get one if he applied. Since there wereno passengers other than a casual man or so, shipping on business fromsome out-of-the-way port to another, the life on board was friendly andpleasant. Philip knew by heart the list of places at which they touched;and each one called up in him visions of tropical sunshine, and magiccolour, and of a teeming, mysterious, intense life. Life! That was what hewanted. At last he would come to close quarters with Life. And perhaps,from Tokyo or Shanghai it would be possible to tranship into some otherline and drip down to the islands of the South Pacific. A doctor wasuseful anywhere. There might be an opportunity to go up country in Burmah,and what rich jungles in Sumatra or Borneo might he not visit? He wasyoung still and time was no object to him. He had no ties in England, nofriends; he could go up and down the world for years, learning the beautyand the wonder and the variedness of life.

Now this thing had come. He put aside the possibility that Sally wasmistaken; he felt strangely certain that she was right; after all, it wasso likely; anyone could see that Nature had built her to be the mother ofchildren. He knew what he ought to do. He ought not to let the incidentdivert him a hair's breadth from his path. He thought of Griffiths; hecould easily imagine with what indifference that young man would havereceived such a piece of news; he would have thought it an awful nuisanceand would at once have taken to his heels, like a wise fellow; he wouldhave left the girl to deal with her troubles as best she could. Philiptold himself that if this had happened it was because it was inevitable.He was no more to blame than Sally; she was a girl who knew the world andthe facts of life, and she had taken the risk with her eyes open. It wouldbe madness to allow such an accident to disturb the whole pattern of hislife. He was one of the few people who was acutely conscious of thetransitoriness of life, and how necessary it was to make the most of it.He would do what he could for Sally; he could afford to give her asufficient sum of money. A strong man would never allow himself to beturned from his purpose.

Philip said all this to himself, but he knew he could not do it. He simplycould not. He knew himself.

"I'm so damned weak," he muttered despairingly.

She had trusted him and been kind to him. He simply could not do a thingwhich, notwithstanding all his reason, he felt was horrible. He knew hewould have no peace on his travels if he had the thought constantly withhim that she was wretched. Besides, there were her father and mother: theyhad always treated him well; it was not possible to repay them withingratitude. The only thing was to marry Sally as quickly as possible. Hewould write to Doctor South, tell him he was going to be married at once,and say that if his offer still held he was willing to accept it. Thatsort of practice, among poor people, was the only one possible for him;there his deformity did not matter, and they would not sneer at the simplemanners of his wife. It was curious to think of her as his wife, it gavehim a queer, soft feeling; and a wave of emotion spread over him as hethought of the child which was his. He had little doubt that Doctor Southwould be glad to have him, and he pictured to himself the life he wouldlead with Sally in the fishing village. They would have a little housewithin sight of the sea, and he would watch the mighty ships passing tothe lands he would never know. Perhaps that was the wisest thing. Cronshawhad told him that the facts of life mattered nothing to him who by thepower of fancy held in fee the twin realms of space and time. It was true.Forever wilt thou love and she be fair!

His wedding present to his wife would be all his high hopes.Self-sacrifice! Philip was uplifted by its beauty, and all through theevening he thought of it. He was so excited that he could not read. Heseemed to be driven out of his rooms into the streets, and he walked upand down Birdcage Walk, his heart throbbing with joy. He could hardly bearhis impatience. He wanted to see Sally's happiness when he made her hisoffer, and if it had not been so late he would have gone to her there andthen. He pictured to himself the long evenings he would spend with Sallyin the cosy sitting-room, the blinds undrawn so that they could watch thesea; he with his books, while she bent over her work, and the shaded lampmade her sweet face more fair. They would talk over the growing child, andwhen she turned her eyes to his there was in them the light of love. Andthe fishermen and their wives who were his patients would come to feel agreat affection for them, and they in their turn would enter into thepleasures and pains of those simple lives. But his thoughts returned tothe son who would be his and hers. Already he felt in himself a passionatedevotion to it. He thought of passing his hands over his little perfectlimbs, he knew he would be beautiful; and he would make over to him allhis dreams of a rich and varied life. And thinking over the longpilgrimage of his past he accepted it joyfully. He accepted the deformitywhich had made life so hard for him; he knew that it had warped hischaracter, but now he saw also that by reason of it he had acquired thatpower of introspection which had given him so much delight. Without it hewould never have had his keen appreciation of beauty, his passion for artand literature, and his interest in the varied spectacle of life. Theridicule and the contempt which had so often been heaped upon him hadturned his mind inward and called forth those flowers which he felt wouldnever lose their fragrance. Then he saw that the normal was the rarestthing in the world. Everyone had some defect, of body or of mind: hethought of all the people he had known (the whole world was like asick-house, and there was no rhyme or reason in it), he saw a longprocession, deformed in body and warped in mind, some with illness of theflesh, weak hearts or weak lungs, and some with illness of the spirit,languor of will, or a craving for liquor. At this moment he could feel aholy compassion for them all. They were the helpless instruments of blindchance. He could pardon Griffiths for his treachery and Mildred for thepain she had caused him. They could not help themselves. The onlyreasonable thing was to accept the good of men and be patient with theirfaults. The words of the dying God crossed his memory:

Forgive them, for they know not what they do.

CXXII

He had arranged to meet Sally on Saturday in the National Gallery. She wasto come there as soon as she was released from the shop and had agreed tolunch with him. Two days had passed since he had seen her, and hisexultation had not left him for a moment. It was because he rejoiced inthe feeling that he had not attempted to see her. He had repeated tohimself exactly what he would say to her and how he should say it. Now hisimpatience was unbearable. He had written to Doctor South and had in hispocket a telegram from him received that morning: "Sacking the mumpishfool. When will you come?" Philip walked along Parliament Street. It wasa fine day, and there was a bright, frosty sun which made the light dancein the street. It was crowded. There was a tenuous mist in the distance,and it softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. He crossedTrafalgar Square. Suddenly his heart gave a sort of twist in his body; hesaw a woman in front of him who he thought was Mildred. She had the samefigure, and she walked with that slight dragging of the feet which was socharacteristic of her. Without thinking, but with a beating heart, hehurried till he came alongside, and then, when the woman turned, he saw itwas someone unknown to him. It was the face of a much older person, witha lined, yellow skin. He slackened his pace. He was infinitely relieved,but it was not only relief that he felt; it was disappointment too; he wasseized with horror of himself. Would he never be free from that passion?At the bottom of his heart, notwithstanding everything, he felt that astrange, desperate thirst for that vile woman would always linger. Thatlove had caused him so much suffering that he knew he would never, neverquite be free of it. Only death could finally assuage his desire.

But he wrenched the pang from his heart. He thought of Sally, with herkind blue eyes; and his lips unconsciously formed themselves into a smile.He walked up the steps of the National Gallery and sat down in the firstroom, so that he should see her the moment she came in. It alwayscomforted him to get among pictures. He looked at none in particular, butallowed the magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their lines, towork upon his soul. His imagination was busy with Sally. It would bepleasant to take her away from that London in which she seemed an unusualfigure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and azaleas; he hadlearned in the Kentish hop-field that she did not belong to the town; andhe was sure that she would blossom under the soft skies of Dorset to ararer beauty. She came in, and he got up to meet her. She was in black,with white cuffs at her wrists and a lawn collar round her neck. Theyshook hands.

"Have you been waiting long?"

"No. Ten minutes. Are you hungry?"

"Not very."

"Let's sit here for a bit, shall we?"

"If you like."

They sat quietly, side by side, without speaking. Philip enjoyed havingher near him. He was warmed by her radiant health. A glow of life seemedlike an aureole to shine about her.

"Well, how have you been?" he said at last, with a little smile.

"Oh, it's all right. It was a false alarm."

"Was it?"

"Aren't you glad?"

An extraordinary sensation filled him. He had felt certain that Sally'ssuspicion was well-founded; it had never occurred to him for an instantthat there was a possibility of error. All his plans were suddenlyoverthrown, and the existence, so elaborately pictured, was no more thana dream which would never be realised. He was free once more. Free! Heneed give up none of his projects, and life still was in his hands for himto do what he liked with. He felt no exhilaration, but only dismay. Hisheart sank. The future stretched out before him in desolate emptiness. Itwas as though he had sailed for many years over a great waste of waters,with peril and privation, and at last had come upon a fair haven, but ashe was about to enter, some contrary wind had arisen and drove him outagain into the open sea; and because he had let his mind dwell on thesesoft meads and pleasant woods of the land, the vast deserts of the oceanfilled him with anguish. He could not confront again the loneliness andthe tempest. Sally looked at him with her clear eyes.

"Aren't you glad?" she asked again. "I thought you'd be as pleased asPunch."

He met her gaze haggardly. "I'm not sure," he muttered.

"You are funny. Most men would."

He realised that he had deceived himself; it was no self-sacrifice thathad driven him to think of marrying, but the desire for a wife and a homeand love; and now that it all seemed to slip through his fingers he wasseized with despair. He wanted all that more than anything in the world.What did he care for Spain and its cities, Cordova, Toledo, Leon; what tohim were the pagodas of Burmah and the lagoons of South Sea Islands?America was here and now. It seemed to him that all his life he hadfollowed the ideals that other people, by their words or their writings,had instilled into him, and never the desires of his own heart. Always hiscourse had been swayed by what he thought he should do and never by whathe wanted with his whole soul to do. He put all that aside now with agesture of impatience. He had lived always in the future, and the presentalways, always had slipped through his fingers. His ideals? He thought ofhis desire to make a design, intricate and beautiful, out of the myriad,meaningless facts of life: had he not seen also that the simplest pattern,that in which a man was born, worked, married, had children, and died, waslikewise the most perfect? It might be that to surrender to happiness wasto accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories.

He glanced quickly at Sally, he wondered what she was thinking, and thenlooked away again.

"I was going to ask you to marry me," he said.

"I thought p'raps you might, but I shouldn't have liked to stand in yourway."

"You wouldn't have done that."

"How about your travels, Spain and all that?"

"How d'you know I want to travel?"

"I ought to know something about it. I've heard you and Dad talk about ittill you were blue in the face."

"I don't care a damn about all that." He paused for an instant and thenspoke in a low, hoarse whisper. "I don't want to leave you! I can't leaveyou."

She did not answer. He could not tell what she thought.

"I wonder if you'll marry me, Sally."

She did not move and there was no flicker of emotion on her face, but shedid not look at him when she answered.

"If you like."

"Don't you want to?"

"Oh, of course I'd like to have a house of my own, and it's about time Iwas settling down."

He smiled a little. He knew her pretty well by now, and her manner did notsurprise him.

"But don't you want to marry ME?"

"There's no one else I would marry."

"Then that settles it."

"Mother and Dad will be surprised, won't they?"

"I'm so happy."

"I want my lunch," she said.

"Dear!"

He smiled and took her hand and pressed it. They got up and walked out ofthe gallery. They stood for a moment at the balustrade and looked atTrafalgar Square. Cabs and omnibuses hurried to and fro, and crowdspassed, hastening in every direction, and the sun was shining.